


This Ain't It

by madamsledge



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Our Beloved Jackass, Relationship Tension, World War II, ranting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 15:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20603342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamsledge/pseuds/madamsledge
Summary: “You can’t tell me it’s over as long as I’m still talking."Or, This is how Bill Guarnere expresses anxiety.





	This Ain't It

The camel’s back finally snapped three days after your last argument, which was thirty-nine days since D-Day, or six months after getting engaged, or fourteen months from your first kiss. Time’s funny like that, can be counted in splendid and horrific ways, depending on one’s own perspective.

“Well, that’s just fucking wonderful.” Bill threw his lighter off with a silvery glint when the damn thing wouldn’t spark. The offending hunk of metal clinked against a rock, pinged against a tree, and then was heard nor seen again. The humid forest, looking for all the world like a setting for some dark and forgotten fairy tale, had swallowed it whole.

The cigarette went next, amidst words that made no sound on his lips, but made your chest and belly tighten apprehensively, anyway. He even threw the pack of smokes after it, too.

“Enough,” you hissed in the dark. “That is enough. I hate when you get like this, I hate when you talk like this, and, more and more, I get to where I hate being around you at all.”

Sometimes the most regretful words were true ones, or at least soured by truth. That was what it was, soured. You could taste it this whole time, and those so-flavoured refused to stay down. The word ‘hate’ directed at your own would-be husband tasted acrid, a splash of vinegar on your tongue, and you wished for some sort of sweetness to wash it away.

Instead, it all just hung there, trapped in the moisture in the air. It grew heavier and heavier as dim moments passed and, for once, if only for a short time, Bill Guarnere was silent.

“So this is it, then?”

Those words pierced like shrapnel through crepe paper, but before that wound could force its way open, before you could speak or act or even think, he continued.

“No,” he said sharply. “No, this isn’t it. Hell fucking no. If you think it is, clearly you haven’t met me. You didn’t put up with me this long just to start hating me now. You don’t hate me. You don’t hate me. Tell me. Say it.”

“No, this isn’t it. I’m telling you, this isn’t it. It ain’t it.” He started pacing around the hastily-dug foxhole, watching the dirt shift around his boots, hand wrenched up like a claw, scratching at his neck. “No, it ain’t over. You don’t hate me all of a sudden. You wouldn’t be with me. I know I’m agitating. I’m just like my dad like that. It’s just his way. It’s just my way. What’d I do so bad now? What?”

Again, before you could begin to verbalise a thought, Bill interrupted even that.

“Bill–”

“If I keep talking, you can’t say it,” he said, holding up his other hand to silence you even as his movements became more hurried and erratic. “You can’t tell me it’s over as long as I’m still talking. You can’t tell me you don’t love me, or you hate me. If I gotta keep talking until the end of time, I ain’t ever gonna hear you say those words. This isn’t it, this isn’t it, this isn’t it…”

It was difficult to believe at first he was really that upset over you, but then you cursed your own cynicism and low self-esteem. At the very least, it was cruel to be dismissive of another human being’s feelings just because they did not align with your own troubled view of yourself.

“I thought I wanted you to be quiet, but quiet’s worse.” Bill’s voice had softened, like a footstep falling through powdery snow. All sound seemed dampened, but, conversely, razor sharp.

“I really thought I wanted you to shut up, too,” you said softly. Somewhere, sliding around in your pockets, there was a lighter. You patted around for it. “No, I do, I still want you to shut up for a second. Bill, god, just close your mouth.”

There was possibly no better method to achieve such than to put one of your own cigarettes between his lips, after briefly placing a kiss there.

“I do love you,” you said, and watched the wariness in his eyes fall away in minuscule increments. “I don’t hate you. I do wish you’d shut the hell up sometimes. It’s not over. The man you are would make your dad proud. It’d make Henry proud. Now,” you finally pulled out the lighter and snapped it open, “smoke this and don’t talk until there’s nothing left.”

Almost. Almost, goddamn it. Bill still had a good two, three drags left, you could tell, when he pulled on a grin and opened his fat mouth. “I toldya it wasn’t it.”

“Get out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All my fanfiction (a lot of which isn't on ao3) can be found at warmommy.tumblr.com/fanfiction


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